


Love Is Not A Victory March

by electricskeptic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-25
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricskeptic/pseuds/electricskeptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a funny thing about intimacy; if Castiel had attempted to hug him rather than Sam, Dean probably would have laughed him all the way back up to Heaven, but sex -- sex, he’s familiar with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Leonard Cohen. Latin from an online translator and probably not as accurate as it could be.

“Hey, is Cas okay?”

Sam asks the question when everything has calmed down somewhat and all the drama of the past few days -- dragons, souls, the Mother of All -- has faded to a more manageable buzz at the back of their heads. At first Dean has no idea what he’s getting at, because Cas hasn’t exactly been the first thing on his mind as of late. Which, yeah, probably makes him a shitty friend, but then he’s never claimed to be anything else. At any rate, he thinks he’s well within his entitlement to have been a little preoccupied, given that he’s spent the last six months or so playing the role of moral guide to his soulless freak of a brother.

“S’far as I’m aware, yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know, just… He was acting kinda weird, is all.”

Dean snorts inelegantly, swiping his thumb through some of the condensation that’s collected on the neck of his beer bottle. “Sam, this is _Cas_ we’re talking about. Dude’s got his picture next to ‘weird’ in the dictionary.”

Sam makes a face. “Weirder than usual, then. He, uh. He tried to hug me.”

Dean blinks at him a few times, sure he must have heard wrong. The idea of Cas -- awkward, reserved, military _Cas,_ the embodiment of stiff upper lip -- angling for physical affection is just plain absurd, and for a moment he worries that whatever Death did when he shoved Sam’s soul back in there must have somehow warped his brother’s grasp on reality.

“Seriously?”

“Dean, you think I could make that up? We were talking, and he was saying how glad he is that I’m alive, and then he just… _came_ at me, arms open wide. It was freaky, man.”

Dean boggles, unable to process the visual image provided by Sam’s words; but now that he actually thinks about it, Castiel’s behavior _has_ been increasingly erratic lately, from the little of it Dean’s been privy to. It seems as though one moment he’s quite content to torture some random kid, the heartless son of a bitch he always claimed to be, and the next he’s kissing demons and rambling on about ‘regrettable things’ and generally acting as though he’s a hair away from going into complete meltdown.

The realization makes Dean feel faintly uneasy, because maybe Cas hasn’t been coping all that well with the requirements of his new position, and maybe Dean’s been missing that in his all-consuming worry over Sam. Not that his worry wasn’t justified -- and Sam will _always_ come first, no matter what -- but he can’t help the slight pang of guilt he feels when he thinks back over all the times he’s dismissed Castiel’s problems as unimportant since the angel came back into his life.

“I guess he’s pretty stressed,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “With the war and all.”

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Sam suggests, draining the last of his beer. Dean pulls a face even though he knows Sam has a point; the prospect of talking about feelings with _anyone_ is enough to bring him out in hives, but talking about feelings with Castiel is always guaranteed to be the most cringeworthy scenario possible, because Castiel is the one person -- angel, whatever -- who’s even more emotionally redundant than Dean. Noticing his reluctance, Sam shoots him a wry smile.

“Bet you’re starting to wish you hadn’t bothered getting my soul back, huh?”

“Not funny, Sam,” Dean snaps, not even caring when he gets a strange look in return. Some things just shouldn’t be joked about; even Dean knows that.

+

Of course, somewhere in between facing off against a real-life Spiderman on steroids, Sam threatening to give him a coronary by remembering Hell, their run-in with homicidal mannequins and saying what will probably be his last goodbyes to Lisa and Ben, Dean’s epiphany about Castiel’s mental wellbeing gets buried under a pile of other crap he should really deal with at some point but probably never will. As it happens, he doesn’t get a chance to talk to Castiel at all until they’re at Bobby’s again, waiting for the Impala to be made road-worthy so that they can get back to business.

He’s curled in bed, hovering on that razor-edge between sleep and wakefulness when he hears noise downstairs. Movement. Somebody clattering around, not even trying to be quiet about it. It could be Sam, could be Bobby, but Dean knows with that hunter’s instinct he’s learned not to question over the years that it’s neither. He curls his hand around the knife hidden under his pillow.

It’s dark in Bobby’s kitchen, but Dean only has to take a few steps inside before he recognizes the shape leaning over the counter. A couple inches shorter than him, deceptively slender frame hidden by the bulk of the ever-present trench coat; Dean blinks in surprise, puts his weapon away. Not that it’d do him much good in this situation even if he _wanted_ to use it, but.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, in the same flat, tired voice he always uses these days. He doesn’t move an inch.

“Cas, what the fuck are you doing? Do you think we could have some light, maybe?”

Almost instantly, the bulb overhead sputters to life, casting the room in a yellowish glow. Castiel is stood against the counter in a way that has Dean immediately revisiting that dream he had, way back when they first met ( _I dragged you out of Hell; I can throw you back in_ ). Only he’s fairly sure that in the dream, Cas hadn’t been swigging from a bottle of Jack, two empties abandoned on the surface beside him.

“I had a particular fondness for liquor, when I was falling,” Castiel offers, and Dean snorts because, yeah, _understatement_

“I remember.”

“It no longer works the way it used to,” Castiel informs him, in a curious tone of regret. He’s staring at the bottle as though it holds the answers to all of life’s great mysteries. “I find I rather miss it.”

He drains the last of the liquid and sets the empty bottle down on the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. By the time he looks at Dean again, his gaze is clear, laser-focused, searing straight through Dean as though he were made of glass.

“So you wanna tell me what the hell you thought you were doing, blabbing all the clubhouse secrets to Sam?” Dean finds himself demanding, because this is the first time he’s seen Castiel since then, and he can’t get the image of Sam seizing on the floor out of his head. Cas seems to have this effect on him as of late, and he has no idea what’s brought it on; only that, for some reason, he can’t help lashing out whenever the angel is around. Castiel narrows calculating eyes at him, gaze gone cold and flat.

“Sam led me to believe that he already knew much of what has transpired in the last year. Perhaps if you _informed_ me of your plans --”

“And just how would you suggest I do that, seeing as you never show your face unless there’s something in it for you?”

Castiel lets loose a frustrated growl that causes Dean’s mind to go places he’d probably be better staying away from. “I’m at _war_ , Dean; how is it that such a simple concept still appears to escape your comprehension entirely?”

Dean has the sudden, uncontrollable urge to laugh; and he does, the absurdity of the situation burbling out of him in hitching snickers. It’s completely inappropriate but as irresistible as a sneeze, and it makes Castiel glare harder than ever, a quietly smoldering volcano in ill-fitting office wear. They’re as far apart as they’ve ever been, and that just makes Dean laugh even harder, teetering on the verge of hysteria.

“Would you mind sharing the joke?” Castiel asks, an undercurrent of warning in his voice. “I find myself once again failing to understand the source of your amusement.”

“Just… what the fuck are we doing here, Cas?” Dean gasps, fighting to sober himself up before Castiel smites him where he stands. “Seems like we’re hardly reading from the same book anymore, let alone on the same page, but honestly? I’m not even that mad at you.”

At this, Cas seems to come off the attack just a bit, tilting his head to the side in that weird, birdlike way of his. “No?”

“Well. No, not really.”

“Ah.”

There follows a few long, _long_ seconds of awkward silence, in which Dean becomes raptly fascinated by a smudge of dirt on Bobby’s kitchen floor.

“I am… pleased that Sam appears to be suffering no ill effects,” Castiel offers tentatively.

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t say that,” Dean mutters sullenly, feeling the heavy, familiar weight of impending doom congeal in the pit of his stomach like old yoghurt. “He’s started remembering Hell, Cas. Some of it, anyway.”

“How is he?” Castiel asks, and there’s real concern there; that much, at least, is gratifying.

“For now? A little shaken up, but fine. God only knows how long that’s gonna last, though.”

“I feared this might happen,” Castiel sighs; too quiet, too calm. Dean feels his rage begin to swell up again in the face of it.

“By all means, rub it in. Maybe we should have gone with your plan instead, just left him to burn in the Pit for the rest of time. That would have gone _so_ much better for Sam.”

“Dean,” Castiel visibly deflates, sagging in on himself until he doesn’t really resemble a warrior of God anymore; just some tired, stressed-out dude in way over his head. He looks down briefly, then steps away from the counter and advances until he’s right in his favorite place; an inch too far inside Dean’s personal bubble.

Dean doesn’t back away, though. He never does.

“I was afraid,” Castiel admits, and that can’t be right because this is the guy who severed a horseman’s finger while his body was ravaged by a million different diseases, who threw a holy Molotov at Heaven’s most powerful archangel; Cas just doesn’t _do_ scared, and yet -- “There are few that I could call ‘friend’, and the prospect of losing one made me uneasy. And I feared what would become of you, should Sam be lost again. But I always knew that you would do everything in your power to bring him back, and you were right not to listen to me. I shouldn’t have… what I said was out of order. I’m sorry.”

Secretly, Dean’s impressed; getting an actual apology out of Castiel is such a rare event that he can count the number of times it’s happened on one hand. The fact that he’s getting one now probably says a lot about how far Castiel overstepped the line this time. To imply that Dean wasn’t looking out for Sam, that Dean has ever had anything other than Sam’s best interests at heart… Cas should know better than that. The uncharacteristic humility has him concerned, though, because it’s a far cry from the way Cas was acting the last time they were in the same room. It’s as though the fight has finally gone out of him and this is all that’s left, a hollow shell of the angel Dean had once been terrified of. It doesn’t bode well.

“Hey, Cas, are you okay?” He begins tentatively, and it feels as though maybe he should have asked a long time ago. “Only, Sam seems to think that you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel replies automatically; stoic to the last, but the way he can’t hold Dean’s gaze is a huge fucking tell. It’s not much, but Dean has studied hard over the last few years and he now considers himself well-versed in the language Castiel’s body speaks. The signs are subtle, little more than fluctuations in expression and stance; but if you know where to look for them, they paint a freaking _roadmap_ of Castiel’s doubts and insecurities.

“Yeah, right; you’re fine. That’s why you’re raiding the liquor cabinet at…” he checks his watch, “…nearly half-past-one in the morning. I’m tellin’ you, man, Bobby’s gonna be pissed. That’s the good stuff you’ve been knocking back.”

“It can be replaced,” Castiel says dismissively. Then he turns away, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose in an utterly human gesture, eyes falling shut on a rattling sigh.

It’s another one of those tiny signals; this one seems to read _end of the line, turn back now_. Without even considering what he’s about to do, Dean reaches out and places his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, squeezing gently. It’s the most physical contact they’ve had since before the end of the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and the effect is instantaneous: Castiel’s eyes fly open wide, and his expression is one that Dean has seen multiple times on the faces of small animals caught in the glare of the Impala’s headlights.

“Dean, what -- what are you doing?”

“Shh,” Dean murmurs, even though he’s pretty much asking the same question himself. “Just go with it. Let it happen.”

Castiel shoots him a dubious look, but doesn’t protest any further. Dean continues to work his hands in repetitive circular motions over the planes of Castiel’s shoulders, feeling the unnatural warmth of his skin even through all the layers. After a few moments, Castiel breathes deeply as the tension begins to bleed out of him.

“Dean, that -- _oh_. That feels good.”

Dean feels his face start to heat up at hearing those words from Castiel’s mouth, spoken in Castiel’s deep baritone, but he doesn’t let up on the pressure, digging his thumbs into the hollows of the angel’s collarbone.

“Yeah, well, you’re not the only one with healing hands, dude. Just ask Lisa.” He shakes his head with a sigh to dispel all thoughts of his ex, that last, fraught discussion in her kitchen, Lisa dressed for a date with another man and Dean with a hundred empty apologies that would never actually make things right. It’s… surprisingly easy, actually, and the twinge in his chest when he thinks of her is manageable; more mild heartburn than cardiac arrest.

“You need to relax, man,” he tells Castiel, still working the stiffness from his posture. “Actually, you know what? You need to get laid. Like, _yesterday_.”

The comment brings two faint spots of color to Castiel’s cheeks; probably undetectable if Dean hadn’t been nose-to-nose with the guy by this point. He smirks, because he remembers a time when he thought Castiel was made of stone, an immovable object made flesh, and it’s too damn fun to watch him squirm now he knows that isn’t the case.

“Still haven’t done the deed, huh? I did wonder whether you’d gotten down and dirty with Meg after your little performance at Crowley’s funhouse.”

“She’s a _demon_ ,” Castiel protests, a note away from scandalized.

“That didn’t stop you from shoving your tongue down her throat,” Dean points out -- reasonably, in his opinion. Castiel’s eyes flicker away in what could be embarrassment, or shame.

“I was -- curious.”

“And?”

Castiel wets his lips, a furrow appearing in the center of his forehead. Dean finds himself unconsciously tracking the motion of his tongue, the glisten of saliva left behind. He swallows hard, forcing himself to look away. They’re standing far too close, his hands still resting on Castiel’s shoulders, but God help him, Dean can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It was… interesting. Pleasurable, I think, though the taste of sulfur was distracting. I -- I think I would do it again. Although preferably not with Meg.”

Dean laughs, mostly to disguise the fact his heart is in his throat and going like a jackhammer. “Yeah? And just exactly who did you have in mind, Casanova?”

Castiel looks him dead in the eyes then, and the intensity of his gaze fairly blows Dean away.

“Do you really need to ask?”

That’s an invitation if ever he’s heard one, and resistance is futile. Dean doesn’t stop to think about how weirdly easy it all is; he doesn’t stop to think _at all_. He just moves his right hand from its place at Castiel’s shoulder to cup the back of his neck, leans forward slowly in case Cas decides to freak out. He doesn’t; the last thing Dean sees is his eyes drifting shut before he closes the negligible distance left between them and fits their lips together.

As soon as the contact is made, Castiel melts against him, uttering a soft sound like he’s been waiting for exactly this. His hands flutter uncertainly over Dean’s shoulders before sliding down to rest at the front of his shirt, fingers twitching at the cotton like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with them.

From watching him with Meg, Dean had assumed that Castiel had some natural aptitude for kissing, a knowledge of the theoretical even if his practical experience was sadly lacking. That seems to be the case, but he’s still a little hesitant, almost shy; nothing of the way he’d pinned Meg to the wall and taken what he wanted. It’s a good kiss, Dean decides; he runs his tongue over the seam of Castiel’s lips, and Castiel opens for him beautifully, sighing into Dean’s mouth when Dean licks his way inside.

Castiel tastes of strong liquor, but there’s a subtle flavor lingering in the dark corners that’s uniquely, distinctively _Cas_ , and it’s that which Dean chases down. Even the slow burn of that permanent five-o’clock shadow is somehow maddeningly erotic in its _other_ ness, so very different from Lisa’s smooth skin and soft curves. The hand Dean has at Castiel’s neck moves of its own volition to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the ridge of bone below his eye socket.

When Dean finally pulls away to breathe, Castiel follows, keeping their mouths little more than centimeters apart, and there’s no way that will ever not be hot. He looks dazed, wide-eyed and red-lipped and pink-cheeked, and the sight sends a pulse of heat direct to Dean’s groin.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat awkwardly, runs a hand down the length of Castiel’s tie, “you sure about this? ‘Cause if we’re headed where I think we’re headed… if we do this, there’s no going back.”

Castiel growls out an indecipherable noise that’s downright predatory; before Dean has time to do much more than blink, he’s got angel hands on either side of his head and he’s having the sense thoroughly kissed out of him. There’s nothing shy or hesitant about it this time around; it’s this primal thing, all lips and teeth and saliva. Castiel sucks Dean’s tongue into his mouth, catches at his bottom lip with sharp incisors, and _holy hell,_ how did Cas learn to do all this, anyway?

Dean can only assume that oxygen deprivation isn’t much of a problem for angels, because Castiel continues his relentless onslaught until Dean feels as though he might just be on the cusp of passing out. Which, in this particular situation, might not be such a painful sacrifice. Castiel looks utterly debauched when they finally separate this time around; Dean doesn’t even want to think about how _he_ must look. He feels a little like he’s the butt of some massive cosmic joke, only he can’t quite figure out the punchline.

“Your concern is touching, Dean,” Castiel informs him (and he doesn’t even sound out of breath, the bastard), “but this war… I don’t have the luxury of waiting. I may not have another chance after this; every time I see you, I fear it will be the last. So believe me when I say that _yes,_ I’m sure. I want this. Dean, I want _everything_.”

Dean attempts to swallow against the dry mass that seems to have accumulated in his throat at the images Castiel’s words bring to mind. He feels ridiculously out of his depth, as though _he’s_ the inexperienced virgin in this scenario.

“Well. Okay, then.”

It’s a funny thing about intimacy; if Castiel had attempted to hug him rather than Sam, Dean probably would have laughed him all the way back up to Heaven, but sex -- sex, he’s familiar with. Sex is what he knows. And it’s hardly a chore: Castiel is a good-looking dude, what with the big blue eyes and the permanent sex-hair and all the sharp angles of his face. Technically, those things belong to Jimmy, but Jimmy’s long gone by now and there’s a world of difference in the way Castiel wears his body. The stiff awkwardness of his posture until he’s got a sword in his hand and it becomes graceful and fluid, poetry in motion; the façade of cold impassivity that doesn’t quite manage to hide the bone-deep desolation and the endless reserves of _agape_ etched into every line and shadow of him: these are things that could only ever belong to Cas. And Cas knows _Dean_ \-- all of Dean that there is to know, and he hasn’t yet run screaming in the opposite direction.

Dean is well aware of just how unlikely all this is: he just agreed to have sex with _Castiel,_ the bad-tempered, bad-humored little dweeb who dragged him back to life, who has since kicked his ass a million times in both the figurative and the very, very literal sense, and who has somehow, inexplicably, become his _friend_. Quite possibly his best friend, if that didn’t sound so _Sweet Valley High_. So yeah: he gets how _totally insane_ it is that they’ve reached this point. He just doesn’t really give a fuck. He resolutely ignores the voice in the back of his mind whispering that maybe he’s always wanted this; maybe he just hadn’t realized it until now, slow on the uptake as per fucking usual.

He runs a hand down the side of Castiel’s face, brushes their lips together, searches the angel’s eyes for any hint of doubt. When he finds none, he nods once, and leaps off the precipice.

“In that case… we should probably take this upstairs.”


	2. Love Is Not A Victory March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a funny thing about intimacy; if Castiel had attempted to hug him rather than Sam, Dean probably would have laughed him all the way back up to Heaven, but sex -- sex, he’s familiar with.

A little-known fact: after Sam threw himself into Hell and the Apocalypse failed to happen, Dean shared a bed with Lisa for three months before he could actually bring himself to sleep with her.

Lisa had been unendingly patient with him, whispering soothing sounds in the dark when the only image his dreams brought him was that of Sam falling into the void (over and over and _over_ again), not pressing him to talk about it when he didn’t want to, and listening carefully when he did. She’d introduced him to Sid and the neighbors when he was up to communicating with other human beings, fixed him up with a job at the construction site when he’d felt the compulsion to earn his keep, and one night in August, when he’d rolled towards her in bed and kissed her with intent for the first time, she’d guided him through it with slow, gentle touches, held him afterwards when he couldn’t stop shaking.

Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Dean thinks that a part of him probably did love Lisa; that the same part probably always will. But the year he’d spent with her had been an illusion at best -- he’d been playing a role in some cheesy breakfast-cereal commercial, acting as an understudy in a life that was never meant for him until he was thrown headlong back into his previous existence. And Lisa had been too good for him in too many ways, but he’d never felt with her that basic spark of _connection_ that’s always lain thick and unacknowledged between himself and Castiel, something like rainstorms and chloroform and a thousand other things he couldn’t begin to identify even if he wanted to.

He wonders occasionally whether their ‘bond’, as Castiel had called it, is something that was forged between them in Hell, present from the very moment Castiel freed his soul from Alastair’s rack. Or maybe it’s something not quite so intrinsic as that; something that’s developed over time in all their shared experiences, a slow learning curve leading up to this moment.

And Dean is still learning: for example, he’s learning right now that when Castiel shoves him into a wall, it isn’t always out of violence. He’s barely gotten the door to his spare room at Bobby’s closed behind them when he’s being pushed up against it, Castiel plastering himself to Dean’s front and kissing him again like he’s suddenly discovered this new and incredible thing that he doesn’t want to stop doing even for a second. Given the amount of incomprehensible shit that Cas has probably seen and done in his long, long life, that kind of blows Dean’s mind, and he responds by tugging Castiel’s coat and jacket off his shoulders, needing to get to skin. When he works open the first couple of shirt buttons to find even more fabric, a thin cotton undershirt, he breaks the kiss to make his frustration known.

“Seriously, Cas. Anyone ever tell you that you wear way too many clothes?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, which either means that he’s managed to grasp the concept of rhetoric somewhere in the last few months (unlikely) or that he’s too busy shoving his hands under Dean’s t-shirt in a heroic attempt to catalogue every bit of flesh he can reach to listen. It figures, really, that Cas would be every bit as impatient when it comes to sex as he is with just about everything else; after all, what probably amounts to several millennia of celibacy is bound to leave a guy feeling a little frustrated.

(Dean actually has no idea how old Castiel really is, and has no particular desire to find out. Asking Cas about shit like that always gives him the same feeling he gets whenever he looks into the night sky while the stars are out: like he’s staring at something vast and unknowable, and Dean Winchester pales in comparison.)

Still, when he starts to feel as though his shirt is in danger of being _ripped in half,_ he figures it’s probably time he took back a little of the control over the proceedings. With some effort, he manages to disengage his mouth from where it’s latched onto Castiel’s once again, taking the angel by the shoulders and pushing him back slightly.

“Whoa, hey, Cas. Slow down there, buddy. We’re not trying to break any land speed records here.”

Castiel frowns at him, but stops pulling quite so insistently at the material bunched in his hands. “Dean, the whole point of this act is to achieve climax.”

“Yeah, well, getting there is at _least_ half the fun. Believe me.”

There is a reason, after all, why there are legions of satisfied bartenders and diner waitresses all over the Midwest of America who would heartily confirm any and all rumors of his sexual prowess. Even if there haven’t been that many since Hell -- just Jamie, and then Anna, and then the world’s longest dry spell until Lisa -- it’s pretty much like riding a bike, and Dean has always enjoyed foreplay almost as much as the actual sex itself. Castiel, however, is still looking dubious, and Dean sighs his exasperation.

“Look, who’s the expert here? ‘Cause I’m fairly sure it’s not you. Just… stop arguing and get on the bed, would you?”

Castiel gives him one last disbelieving look before releasing his hold and climbing onto the old mattress -- Dean doesn’t want to think ‘obediently’, because Castiel’s history with following orders is uncomfortable territory he’d rather not dwell on right now. Instead, he goes over to where he dumped his pack when he arrived, rifling through it in a sudden burst of foresight it for the complementary motel lotion Sam shoved in there on the last hunt. He doesn’t want to make any presumptions, but as he’s learnt many, many times over the last thirty-two (seventy-two) years, preparation is everything.

When he’s found what he’s looking for, he turns back to the bed and just kind of… freezes. Because Cas is half-sitting, half-lying against the headboard, looking more relaxed than Dean has ever seen him, shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, _sans_ coat and jacket, ruffled and disheveled and kind of irresistible-looking. And if Dean had ever been in doubt, the sizeable bulge tenting the front of his slacks obscenely is incontrovertible evidence that Castiel is most definitely up for this. For his part, Dean isn’t quite fully hard yet, but he’s getting there; closer and closer the longer he looks, and he has to wonder just how it is that Castiel all laid out like that -- even still mostly clothed -- manages to be one of the most erotic things he’s ever seen.

“Dean, what is it?”

Dean blinks, slightly embarrassed to have been caught gawping so obviously. “Nothing, just. We’re really doing this, huh?”

“We would be, if you’d come and join me instead of simply standing there,” Castiel says pointedly. Dean takes the hint and sets the lotion on the nightstand before lowering himself gracelessly to the bed, straddling Castiel’s body on his hands and knees.

“God, you’re a snarky little bastard these days. I think I liked you better before you mastered sarcasm.”

He silences any retort of Castiel’s by crushing their lips together in another searing kiss, hotter and heavier than any of their previous ones. Castiel responds eagerly, using his superior strength to pull Dean down so that they’re touching everywhere, drawing hisses from the both of them at the press of cocks through denim and polyester. Castiel kisses with the same single-minded concentration he devotes to everything else, searching out every hidden corner of Dean’s mouth as though he’s trying to build a topographical map from memory. The wet slide and tangle of their tongues over one another is fucking addictive, and Dean is pretty sure he could come just from dry-humping Cas through their clothes.

With an enormous amount of effort, he leaves that delightful mouth behind, ignoring the small noise of protest Castiel makes to begin sucking at the sharp line of his jaw, leaving red marks that he knows will disappear without a trace as soon as Castiel wills them to. They stay where they are for the time being, though, something which speaks volumes. Incredibly gratifying volumes. Dean pushes his nose against the rough scratch of stubble, inhales the scent of whisky as well as something foreign and unnamable before turning his attention to the more important task of getting Cas naked.

He fumbles a little with the tiny plastic buttons in his haste, but otherwise manages to get both shirt and undershirt off the angel and on the floor in record timing, and then there’s just a blank canvas of flawless, unmarked skin, waiting to be claimed. Castiel, it turns out, is wonderfully responsive, letting out all these breathy little sighs and gasps when Dean presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck, clutching convulsively at Dean’s shoulders when Dean licks a stripe over his collarbone. His entire body jerks when Dean’s teeth close around a nipple, and it occurs to Dean then that this is the first time anybody has ever touched Cas this way, the first time he’s ever felt any of these sensations. The thought makes him hesitate briefly, and he raises himself up to hover over Castiel until they’re face-to-face again.

“Hey. If this is all too much for you, we can stop.”

It’s an immense relief when Castiel shakes his head frantically, because Dean’s not entirely sure he’s _capable_ of stopping by this point.

“No, it’s…” Cas licks his lips, and Dean shifts his stance a little, suddenly acutely aware of his erection straining uncomfortably against his jeans. “Continue. Please.”

“Well, since you ask so nicely,” Dean responds with a smirk, because Castiel is not exactly renowned for his appreciation of basic manners. Unless, of course, ‘appreciation’ is being used as a synonym for ‘complete and utter disdain’. He doesn’t tease any longer, though, and gets back down to the business of exploring Castiel’s exposed torso, drawing a path in saliva from his chest to the flat of his stomach. He feels Cas tugging insistently on his hair but resists the urge to look up again, instead flicking the point of his tongue into Castiel’s navel before following the line of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband, noting the tense quiver of muscle at his ministrations.

When he’s got Cas good and worked up, Dean trails fingers over his still-clothed dick, feeling the shape of it through the thin material. Then he squeezes lightly with his whole hand, and the added pressure gets him an honest-to-God _moan,_ choked and desperate, Castiel bucking his hips in an attempt to push further into the touch. Dean grins to himself even as he feels his own cock throb in sympathy; there’s something about watching his normally straight-laced friend come undone like this that’s an undeniable turn-on.

“Good, huh?”

“ _Yes._ I -- I didn’t realize…”

“Oh, it gets better than that. Trust me.”

Without offering any further explanation, he strips Castiel the rest of the way, removing first his shoes and socks (and marveling for a second at his bare feet, which for some reason strike him as weirdly human and vulnerable) before dragging both his dress pants and boxers down his legs in one go until there are no barriers left; just miles of naked flesh, on display before him like a fucking banquet.

Dean takes a moment to just _look,_ because seeing Cas like this -- that Cas would _allow_ Dean to see him like this -- is kind of a headtrip. Castiel’s body is smaller than Dean’s, and not as well-muscled, but there’s a quiet strength to his form nonetheless. He’s all lines and angles where Dean is used to sweeping curves, and the cock that juts from just below those finely-cut hipbones is blood-flushed and already leaking precome from the tip.

Dean allows his gaze to fall on Castiel’s face, all kiss-bitten lips and wild hair crushed against the pillow. He locks onto those eyes, fierce and fathomless and endearingly naïve, and there’s this long, crazy stretch of time in which they just _stare_ at one another the way they always do, only know that sharp undercurrent of _want_ is so obvious that Dean wonders how he could ever have missed it. And the thing is, this Castiel doesn’t really look like a celestial being, but he doesn’t look ordinary either; he looks like the very essence of humanity, captured it all of its filthy, tainted, _mesmerizing_ glory.

Then Cas shifts impatiently, and the moment is gone; remembering what he was supposed to be doing, Dean takes hold of Castiel’s dick without any clothing in the way this time, giving him light, teasing strokes that he knows from experience are the kind to drive a man insane. The angle is awkward, but worth it to hear more of those delicious moans spilling from Castiel’s throat; much too loud for Bobby’s thin walls that tend to carry even the slightest sound, but Dean can’t bear the thought of stifling them.

“Dean. _Dean_.” Castiel’s voice is kind of raw, and Dean kind of likes it. “You’re still wearing all of your clothes.”

“Man. You angels are sharp, I’ll give you that.”

Castiel still manages to pull off that distinctly unimpressed look he’s got perfected even while on the receiving end of his first ever handjob, and Dean obligingly pulls back, releasing Cas to sit on his heels at the foot of the bed. He’s itching to get out of his clothes anyway, his skin too hot and tight beneath them, and so he pulls off his t-shirt in one fluid motion before struggling with his jeans in a slightly less coordinated manner, well aware of Castiel watching him intently the whole time. When Dean chances a glance at him, his expression is both rapturous and predatory, a strange hybrid of the how he used to look when he talked about God and the way he regarded hamburgers when Famine was fucking his head. Dean isn’t quite sure which one of those comparisons makes him more uncomfortable, and puts a halt to the entire train of thought.

After what seems like an inordinately long amount of time, he finally manages to wriggle out of his underwear, and then he’s naked, and Cas is naked, and they’re naked together, and that should be at least a _little_ weird but somehow isn’t. Dean moves back up the bed, positioning himself above Castiel once again; apparently Cas has other ideas, however, and Dean finds himself flat on his back before his brain has even registered movement, Castiel straddling his waist and pinning his wrists above his head. He tenses momentarily, uneasy at being held down in a way that has little to do with masculinity and a whole lot to do with Hell. He forces himself to relax, because this is _Cas,_ and if there’s anyone he can trust it’s the guy who got him out of that situation in the first place -- but Castiel releases him anyway, apologizing profusely, and sometimes Dean forgets that the angel really does know _everything._

“It’s okay,” he says, and he isn’t really sure who he’s trying to convince. “Just, you took me by surprise. You’ve got some serious moves, for a virgin.”

Now the look on Castiel’s face says that he’s officially calling bullshit, and that just makes Dean feel even worse, because what right does he have to still be so hung up over this when his time downstairs pales in comparison to Sam’s, when his brother is little more than a time bomb with memories so traumatic he’ll turn into a drooling vegetable the second they float up to his conscious mind?

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice pulls him away from his self-flagellation, oddly gentle like Dean’s only heard it a handful of times before. “Your brother’s suffering does not invalidate your own.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, because seriously. What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

“Dude. Get the fuck out of my head.”

For a second, Dean sees something in Castiel’s eyes that makes it seem as though maybe he’s disappointed, or upset. But then he lifts one shoulder in what Dean supposes must be an angel’s imitation of a shrug and the look is gone, if it was ever there in the first place.

“As you wish.”

Castiel bends down to kiss his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks -- all of it feeling uncomfortably close to supplication -- before trailing his lips down the side of Dean’s neck, mouthing at the sweaty hollow of his throat and moving still lower, tracing the lines of the protection tattoo with fingers and then tongue. Cas takes his time in exploring the body he created upon Dean’s resurrection, inch by inch. It’s slow, and it’s thorough, and it makes Dean squirm because he’s never been all that comfortable with the idea of being studied in any level of detail, all of his flaws and shortcomings on display. As it goes on, however, Castiel’s soothing touches and half-whispered words that Dean can’t pick out coerce him into relaxing, muscles loosening one by one until he feels more _at peace_ than he has in years. Maybe ever.

“You are exceptionally beautiful,” Castiel observes, pausing in whatever it is he’s doing to look Dean dead in the eye. And yeah -- that brings the awkwardness back.

“ _Cas._ You can’t say shit like that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Well, for one thing, I’m a guy. You’re a guy -- sort of -- and that’s just not what we say to each other, okay?”

Castiel shakes his head, as if _Dean_ is the one being weird about this. “You are ridiculous,” he says, and Dean would be offended if Cas didn’t sound just the slightest bit fond.

“Yeah, well. You’re kind of a dick, so I guess we’re even.”

And, oh, speaking of dicks -- Dean had almost forgotten about his own, but becomes very much aware of it again as Castiel runs his fingers along the shaft, flicking his thumb over the head; tentative, curious touches, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes Dean tick. Even that light pressure sends heat racing along his nervous pathways, and he imagines that he can feel the firing of each individual neuron, miniature flashpoints within every tissue of his body.

“Oh, God,” he gasps out when Castiel changes his grip, wrapping his whole hand around Dean in a loose fist. It’s far from the most accomplished touch he’s been on the receiving end of, not even in the top twenty, but he suspects his reactions are more a result of _who’s_ doing the touching than what’s actually being done to him.

“God has nothing to do with this,” Castiel snaps, and there’s something bitter and vehement in his tone that makes Dean pause to think for a second. Then Cas takes the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth without warning, and rational thought kind of flies out the window, Dean reaching down to tangle a hand in Castiel’s hair, torn between pulling him away and pushing further into that glorious wet heat.

“Cas, _fuck,_ ” he manages, arching up a little in spite of himself. “You, uh, you probably don’t want to be doing that if you don’t want this to be over in the next… well, let’s just say soon, okay?”

Castiel pulls off with an obscene _pop,_ crawls back up to resume his original position. He doesn’t do anything else once he’s there, though, and for the first time since they started this whole thing, he looks a little lost.

“Dean, I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly; nervous, unsure, and Dean takes pity on him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Fortunately for you, I happen to have had _plenty_ of practice in this field.” He goes for nonchalant, squeezing Castiel’s leg in what he hopes is a vaguely reassuring gesture. “You trust me, right?”

“You are the _only_ one I trust,” Castiel says matter-of-factly, with his unique brand of devastating honesty that never fails to make Dean feel as though he’s had something slipped in his drink.

“Right, well. Good,” he replies eloquently, and flips them so that Castiel is under him again. He doesn’t get much further, however, before Cas is hooking fingers behind the back of his neck and pulling him down to kiss him again, open-mouthed and messy, and Dean can’t quite stop himself from grazing Castiel’s full lower lip with his teeth, randomly pistoning his hips in search of something to rut against.

When it’s over, Castiel quirks an odd little smile up at him that makes Dean’s stomach do all kinds of crazy things, because Cas’s smiles have always been on the endangered species list but up until this point Dean had presumed the war in Heaven had driven them to extinction. It’s a breath of fresh air in comparison to the sullen hopelessness and slow-burning fury that’s hung around Castiel like a shroud over the last few months, and Dean wants to make him look like that more often; all the time if possible.

“I like kissing you,” Cas tells him simply, and Dean responds with a smile of his own before grabbing the lotion from the nightstand. He’s only done this a handful of times before, and all of them before he hit twenty-five, but it’s enough that he has at least some idea of what he’s doing. He hopes it’s enough to make things go easier for the both of them.

“Cas, open your legs,” He requests, and his voice cracks in the middle, lust-roughened and barely recognizable. Castiel complies immediately, testament to that trust he was talking about, drawing his knees up and spreading them wide, and Dean’s brain kind of short-circuits at that point. He has a feeling that the image Cas provides will be keeping him company on some of those long, lonely nights on the road. It takes him three tries to get the cap off the lotion bottle, and his hands are shaking when he pours a generous amount onto his palm, but then he’s circling one slick finger around Castiel’s entrance, and yeah, this is really happening.

“This is probably gonna feel a little weird at first,” he warns, “but then it’ll start to feel good. _Really_ good if you let it. Okay?”

Castiel’s only response is to grunt impatiently and shift his hips; Dean takes that as permission enough, and presses in. Cas is tense at first, until Dean runs his tongue along the damp crease of his thigh, lays a hand flat on his belly and tells him _relax;_ then everything just kind of loosens, and Dean can slide in all the way to the knuckle. He crooks his finger experimentally, searching out that internal pleasure button: he knows when he’s found it because Castiel jackknifes up off the bed like there’s a live wire running through him, emitting a thin, high-pitched whine that Dean would tease him mercilessly for if he wasn’t so busy trying not to spontaneously combust from his own off-the-charts arousal. He squeezes at the base of his cock with his free hand, forcing the endless litany of _wantneedfucknow_ to the back of his mind for the time being.

“That… do that again,” Castiel orders, eyes wild, and Dean does, massaging his prostate to make Cas pant and writhe like a porn star, hands clenching and unclenching in the bed sheets. After a while of this, he withdraws to add a second digit, resumes the onslaught until Cas is nearly incoherent, demanding _more, please, now_. Dean mostly ignores him; he’s seen Castiel shot and stabbed, thrown through several walls and, on one memorable occasion, an upper-storey window. But even though he’s positive there’s literally nothing he could do that would permanently hurt the angel, he finds that he still wants to take his time with this, not rush into things before Cas is ready. Maybe it’s because it’s in his nature to take care of other people, or maybe it’s because he knows Cas doesn’t have anyone else; Dean isn’t sure.

When he finally slides his fingers free, Castiel is reduced to a boneless heap, loose and pliant in a way that Dean hadn’t even thought him capable of. His eyes are wide, only the barest corona of blue showing around hugely dilated pupils, and Dean has to tap his cheek several times just to get a response.

“Hey. You ready?”

Castiel gives him a look which suggests he’s being too stupid to live, and Dean spends a moment contemplating what the best way to do this would be. He’s faintly surprised when Cas makes the decision for him, shoving him over onto his back and climbing on top to sit astride his lap.

Castiel runs his hands lightly along the length of Dean’s upper arms, as though testing his weight on them; then, without any further prompting from Dean, he raises up before guiding himself down onto Dean’s cock. The feeling is indescribable, _beyond_ tight; Cas sinks down slowly, and it’s all that Dean can do to stop himself from just grabbing his hips, holding him still and fucking him right open. He watches the changes that come over Castiel’s face instead, the way his eyelashes flutter and his teeth catch on his bottom lip as he slides all the way home; the poker face well and truly gone now, and with it, Dean feels the world begin to unravel.

“Cas,” he breathes out, “Castiel,” and it’s too much, too close, _danger, abort mission,_ but he’s too far gone over the edge now to have any hope of pulling himself back. He’s in freefall; he thinks that maybe he has been ever since Castiel blew down those barn doors in Illinois all those years ago.

“You good?” He asks out of courtesy more than anything else, because he’s fairly sure he knows the answer. Castiel nods mutely, slack-jawed, and Dean can’t help rocking up a little, desperate for friction. Then Cas starts to move, and it’s clear that his body remembers what to do even if the angel inside has no idea. And it’s good, _really_ fucking good, but the movements are too even, too precise; Dean can see the strain in Castiel’s arms, the tremble in his legs as he fights to keep himself under control. Even as his own body screams for _more, harder, faster,_ Dean takes hold of Castiel’s splayed thighs, tightens his fingers around taut muscle to get his attention.

“Cas, you gotta let go.”

“I’ll fall apart,” Castiel whispers, barely audible; Dean feels an unprecedented rush of affection for him then, and reaches up to touch his face, smoothing a thumb over that reddened mouth.

“Yeah, but sometimes that’s a good thing,” he promises. Castiel doesn’t look convinced, so Dean drags him down for another kiss, rolling his pelvis in smooth, repetitive motions, trying to find that spot to light Cas up from the inside out again. He’s gratified when Castiel keens loudly, shuddering all over, tearing his mouth from Dean’s to bite at his shoulder instead.

Cas pushes himself up, one hand on Dean’s chest as he begins to ride Dean’s cock in earnest, and _this_ \-- this is what had been missing before, Castiel grinding down every time Dean thrusts upwards, rising and falling, the two of them moving in harmony. It’s perfection, union, _symbiosis_ in a way that Dean’s never known sex to be before, not even with Lisa. The noises Cas is making now are fucking _shameless,_ ecstatic cries and groans chasing each other out of his voicebox; there’s no way that Sam and Bobby aren’t hearing this, but Dean can’t even bring himself to care. He loves that _Cas_ doesn’t care, loves how completely unabashed he is about the whole thing now that he’s finally taken Dean’s advice and let go of that rigid self-discipline beaten into him by Heaven.

And to be fair, Dean isn’t exactly being quiet either; he suspects that some of the sounds clawing their way up from his lungs right now are downright undignified. Worse than that, though, are the thoughts currently racing through his head, an endless string of _ohgodyes_ and _needyousomuch_ and _don’teverleave_ and _cascascas_. It’s embarrassing as hell, because he knows for a fact that Castiel can read his mind -- but then there’s no way he’s ever actually going to _say_ any of this shit, and Cas probably deserves to hear it.

“God, you fuck me up,” is what he says aloud, and it’s true enough.

“I assure you, that is not… my intention,” Castiel rasps, even as he slams back down again, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the air. Dean skims his hands up to the barely-there dip of Castiel’s waist, slipping in sweat, gripping hard enough to bruise if the creature in his grasp was anything like human. He just watches for a moment, drinks in the sight of that lithe body undulating above him, because Cas like this is fucking gorgeous in a way that Dean’s never really noticed or appreciated before. There’s a dusky pink blush climbing up his chest and throat now, beads of perspiration standing out on his skin, and Dean figures Castiel won’t last much longer. Then again, he’s not the only one; Dean can already feel the liquid heat beginning to collect at the base of his spine as he meets Castiel’s downward shoves again and again, rhythm and finesse becoming a thing of the past.

Not wanting to be the first across the finish line, Dean wraps a hand around Castiel’s dick once again, jerking him off in time to his thrusts, twisting on the upstroke, smearing the precome he finds at the head, using every trick he knows to bring Castiel to completion. Cas whimpers at the touch, trying to push down onto Dean’s cock and forwards into his hand at the same time, swooping to capture Dean’s mouth in something too uncoordinated to properly be called a kiss. Dean pushes him back with a hand on his shoulder, wanting to see his face when it hits.

“Come on, Cas,” he begs, desperate to finish now. “Come for me.”

It only takes Dean banging into his prostate one more time, and Castiel is there. For all that he’s been loud up until now, he’s silent in the throes of orgasm save for one choked-off, pre-emptive intake of breath before he’s coming all over Dean, coating his fingers and splattering his stomach and chest with stringy white ropes. His eyes stay open the whole time, glazed and shocky but trained on Dean like he’s the only thing Cas knows. The dusty light bulb hanging from the ceiling flickers once, and Dean would swear he sees wing-shaped shadows unfurling from Castiel’s body and spreading across the walls behind him.

The picture Cas makes, along with the sensation of his muscles clenching and spasming around Dean’s cock, has Dean slamming headlong into his own climax, balls drawing up tight and hips giving one last abortive jerk before he’s emptying himself into Cas with an indecipherable yell.

It comes to him like a revelation then, as he’s busy shaking apart beneath his only friend in the world, that he’s never going to have it better than this. He’s done for, completely; this is it for him.

The thought should be terrifying, and on some level it is. But he also finds it oddly comforting, and carries it with him over the edge.

+

When Dean recovers his faculties, he finds Castiel slumped half on top of him, breath coming slightly more harshly than usual for all that he’s an angel. He draws idle, abstract patterns across the heated skin of Dean’s chest with his right hand, while his left is anchored to Dean’s right side. Dean can’t complain, really; his own fingers are carding slowly back and forth through Castiel’s hair without having consulted him first.

And this isn’t _cuddling,_ by the way, no matter how it might look; Dean doesn’t do that, and he’s pretty damn sure Castiel doesn’t, either. No, this is simply being too fucked-out to move, rendered immobile by a haze of post-sex endorphins. Besides, he can’t help thinking of his conversation with Sam, weeks ago now: _he tried to hug me,_ and maybe Cas needs this. Although Dean knows him well enough by now to realize that he’d let Raphael liquefy him all over again before he’d ever admit to such a thing.

(Dean is never going to acknowledge that maybe, possibly, he might just need it too. Not even in the relative privacy of his own head.)

“So. That was awesome.”

Castiel buries his face in the curve of Dean’s shoulder, sighing deeply; the warm gust of air makes Dean’s hairs stand to attention, and he shivers in spite of his best efforts not to.

“Yes. It is… refreshing, to focus on something other than the war for even a small amount of time.”

Dean smiles, though he doesn’t really feel like it. He thinks of Castiel out there alone, killing his brothers and sisters; the thought that _Cas_ could be killed in combat and Dean would likely never even find out about it produces an odd sensation in his chest, as though someone has put his heart inside an iron maiden and closed the lid. It hits him for the first time that the war Castiel is fighting now is the same one that had driven Dean to the point of suicide two years ago; only difference is that now, Dean and Sam are no longer a part of it and Castiel is fighting for the future of humanity with only a handful of angels on his side.

“Yeah, well, you know me,” is what he says. “Dean Winchester: distraction extraordinaire.”

“I’m so tired, Dean,” Castiel admits, the threads of confession beginning to spin themselves out from him. Dean gets the impression that he isn’t supposed to be privy to this, these first few bricks coming loose from the wall Castiel keeps up at all times. He kind of wishes Cas would stop talking, but as ever, the universe doesn’t appear to have a great deal of respect for the whims of Dean Winchester.

“I’m losing. Raphael’s army is vastly greater than mine, and every day our numbers are dwindling. And the others look to me like I should know what our next move must be, but I’m not -- I’m not a general. I’m not strong enough to lead.”

“I think you’re stronger than _you_ think you are,” Dean tells him, even though it feels more than a little ridiculous to be giving a pep talk to someone who could disintegrate him without lifting a finger. “Besides, didn’t God give you the heavenly promotion?”

Castiel hesitates for a long moment, his hand stilling just over Dean’s heart. “I am more powerful than I have ever been, yes,” he answers eventually. “But I am also more human. I… _feel_ too much for the things that are required of me. I never asked for this. I’m not _meant_ for this.”

Dean can’t help the ironic little smile that twists his mouth, because it’s almost as though they’ve undergone a complete role reversal from how things were three and a half years ago. “Well, dude, maybe that’s why it _has_ to be you. I mean, if you were vying for power because you wanted to lord it up over the rest of your frat buddies, you’d be no better than Michael. A little humanity is exactly what you need; out of all the angels out there, you’re the _only_ one who could lead a revolution.”

Castiel makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “And just how exactly can you be sure of that?”

“Because…” Dean swallows back whatever flippancy was on the tip of his tongue, prepares himself to say possibly the sappiest thing he’s ever said to anyone who isn’t Sam. “Because living the life I lead, seeing the things I’ve seen… I’ve never believed in a whole lot, Cas. But I, uh. I think I believe in you.”

Castiel stares at him as though he’s grown another limb or started speaking in a foreign language. Dean feels his face beginning to warm up, but he forces himself not to take it back or ruin the moment by cracking some tasteless joke, meeting those eyes unflinchingly. If nothing else, leaving Castiel at a complete loss for words has to be some kind of a first.

“I -- Dean, I don’t know what to say,” he comes out with finally, in a faint, awed voice that makes Dean cringe because he really isn’t anything special enough to warrant it.

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to say anything; we don’t need to make this moment any more Hallmark than it already is. But… you always had faith in me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Hell, _especially_ when I didn’t deserve it. Only seems fair I return the favor.”

“I didn’t always,” Castiel counters, eyes shifting away in that way they always do when he’s feeling guilty about something, and it’s obvious he’s thinking about the time Dean almost gave in to Michael. There’s so much history between them; not all of it good, some of it downright ugly, but it’s something Dean will never be able to share with Lisa or anyone else. Because as much as Lisa might think she knows about his work, there are some things Dean would never, ever let her find out; he wouldn’t even know where to start. But Cas… Cas knows _everything._ And he still hangs around anyway. Dean’s never quite been able to figure out why, but he’s damn grateful for it.

“You don’t have to keep beating yourself up over that,” he tells Castiel now, fingers still working the thick hair at the base of his skull. “It’s not as though I didn’t give you plenty of reason to give up on me. And it’s in the past now, anyway.”

They lapse into a companionable silence and Dean shifts, trying to ignore the sensation of body fluids cooling on his skin. He should really make the effort to clean them both up, but he’s too satiated, too damn _content_ to even contemplate moving. It’s then that an uncomfortable thought hits him, and he twists to look at Castiel again, clearing his throat nervously.

“Are you gonna get in trouble for what we did here? I mean, isn’t this sort of against your rules?”

Castiel gives him a Look, the kind that definitely deserves capitalization. “You have never expressed concern about me breaking the rules for you before now.”

Dean winces, because it’s below the belt. He wants to believe Castiel is being overly harsh, to demand that he take it back; but it’s the truth, and they both know it. It’s hardly a secret that there isn’t much Castiel can refuse him and Dean tries not to take advantage of the fact. But when there’s an actual angel -- wings and all -- at your beck and call, it can be hard to resist asking for a favor every now and then. It doesn’t mean he cares about Castiel any less. And it’s not like he ever asks for anything for himself; for Sam, for the greater good, yes. But never for himself.

“Do you ever regret it? All the things you did?” _For me_ lies unspoken in the gaps between them, hanging like an anvil over their heads. “I mean, do you ever think things would have been easier if you’d just yet the world burn?”

“Undoubtedly, they would have been easier, but I have learned my lesson. Do you remember the last thing I asked you before I returned to Heaven?”

Dean nods, that same old question rolling around in his head: _peace or freedom?_

“I would choose freedom every time,” Castiel tells him. “I am… so very old, Dean, and I have so many regrets, so many things I would do differently if given a second chance. But choosing you, following you -- _that_ I would do over and over, so long as the choice is mine to make.”

Just when Dean thinks he physically _cannot take_ anymore, Castiel rolls off and to the side, propping himself up on one elbow. His eyes make a cursory sweep of Dean’s body before he fits his free hand slowly, deliberately, over the mark on Dean’s left bicep. It isn’t a perfect match, of course; the scar has almost faded by now, and Castiel hadn’t been wearing that poor bastard Jimmy Novak when he’d yanked Dean out of the Pit. And yet, Dean still feels a frisson of something strange at the contact, spreading its way out from the epicenter into every dark crevice and hollow place in his body until he feels _light._

“ _Ego sum vobis,_ ” Castiel whispers. _I am for you._

+

Dean wakes feeling truly peaceful for the first time in as long as he can remember, wrapped around all this warm, naked, sweet-smelling flesh. They’re about as closely entwined together as it’s possible to be while still remaining separate entities; Castiel has his eyes closed and he’s breathing slow and deep, looking more relaxed than Dean has ever seen him. He has to wonder what exactly is up with that, because the only other time he’s seen Castiel sleep was the night before Detroit, and he was _human_ then.

Leaving all questions regarding celestial sleep patterns aside for the time being, Dean lies still and waits for the feeling of shame and regret to come crashing over him. It doesn’t happen; in fact, he’s just on the verge of freaking out that he _isn’t_ freaked out by this when those eyes sweep open, huge and inhumanly blue from this close up.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, one corner of his mouth twitching up. He sounds downright _affectionate,_ and Dean wonders how he never noticed that before.

“Cas,” he replies. “I thought you guys didn’t sleep.”

“We don’t. I was in a deep state of meditation.”

“Right.” Well, that’s slightly less creepy than thinking that Cas has just been _staring_ at him since he fell asleep.

“As pleasing as you are to look upon, observing your sleep grows rather tedious after several hours,” Castiel intones dryly, quite obviously reading minds again. Dean snorts, skimming his fingers over the sharp ridge of Castiel’s hipbone and mentally taking note of the light shudder it elicits.

“So. You’re still here.”

“Did you believe I would be gone?”

“No offence, dude, but the way you’ve been acting lately? I figured you’d be a little more ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’.”

That gets him the patented look of angelic confusion, but Castiel seems to understand the gist of what he’s saying because he takes Dean’s head in his hands, pulls back a little way to look him direct in the eyes.

“If I was able, I would always stay with you,” he murmurs, swiping a thumb over Dean’s bottom lip.

“You left before,” Dean points out. The words are petulant, he knows, and he regrets them the instant they leave his mouth. That doesn’t make them any less true, however, and in many ways the wound is still as raw as it was when Castiel disappeared for that last time from the passenger seat of the Impala.

“Heaven was in chaos,” Castiel admits, without apology. “Had I not returned, power would automatically have fallen to Raphael and everything we endured to put a stop to the Apocalypse would have been for nothing. Besides, you were with Lisa and Ben. They’re good people, Dean. I think they helped you more than I would have been able. There were… so many times when I wanted to go to you; when I saw that you were still grieving for Sam, when I saw that you were drinking too much and sleeping too little. But then you started to get better. I assumed that seeing me again would only hinder your progress.”

“You mean… you were watching me? The whole time?” Dean asks weakly, because there’s not a whole lot else he can do.

“You were not the only one to make a promise to Sam,” Castiel confirms. “The very last thing he said to me, before Lucifer took him… He asked me to take care of you. I honored that wish, as well as I was able.”

Dean doesn’t quite know how to react to that, isn’t sure whether he wants to punch Castiel for not letting him know or kiss the stupid angel for not abandoning him completely. He’s saved from doing either by a timid knock at the door, and Sam’s sheepish voice filtering through.

“Uh, Dean?” Christ, Dean can _hear_ the kid blushing, and yeah, he _definitely_ heard everything that went down last night. “Bobby says that since you kept him up all night, the least you can do is haul your ass out of bed and make breakfast before we hit the road.”

Dean grunts out an affirmative and listens to the sounds of Sam trudging back downstairs; even his _footsteps_ sound embarrassed. When he’s sure his brother is safely out of earshot, Dean turns back to Cas, smirking.

“You gonna stick around for breakfast? I know you don’t need to eat, but I make some mean pancakes.”

Castiel sighs, the sound of it ancient and weary, and Dean knows that this reprieve they’ve been granted, whatever it is, is well and truly over.

“I should get back to the war. I’ve already been away for too long.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, hating the way his voice comes out cracked and disappointed. He sits up in the bed with his back to Castiel, picks his discarded boxers up off the floor and pulls them on.

“Dean --” Castiel sounds wretched, and that’s something Dean can’t ignore, no matter how much he wants to. He turns back to face Cas; everything about him looks conflicted and miserable, staring blankly upwards at the ceiling like a man on death row.

“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Dean soothes clumsily. “I get it. The shit doesn’t stop hittin’ the fan just ‘cause we finally got our act together.”

Castiel’s gaze switches to Dean then, and he lifts two fingers to trail them contemplatively over the contours of Dean’s face, barely-there touches that make him _ache._

“Someday, there will be time for us,” Castiel promises, and Dean laughs humorlessly because it’s just more empty words.

“And just how can you know that?”

“I have faith.”

“You have _faith?_ ” Dean repeats incredulously. “Right, ‘cause that’s worked out so well for you before.”

There’s more that he could say, and he’s about to let it all come pouring forth when he’s cut off at the pass by the press of Castiel’s forefinger against his lips, silencing him. Cas pulls himself to sitting and replaces the finger with his own mouth, treating Dean to a soft, sweet kiss that feels too much like a farewell. He rests his forehead against Dean’s when it’s over, eyes closed, one hand stroking the side of Dean’s face. They share each other’s breaths; Dean wonders, if they stay like this for long enough, whether a piece of Castiel’s grace will find its way inside of him and take up root.

“It is the _only_ thing I have faith in,” Castiel murmurs. Dean can feel each consonant vibrate off his lips. “Please don’t take it away from me.”

Dean understands, suddenly; everything Castiel is saying and everything he isn’t, and he nods mutely. Castiel mouths at the soft underside of Dean’s jaw, trails his lips over Dean’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose, showers Dean’s eyelids with kisses. Dean closes his eyes, tries to hold onto the feeling for as long as humanly possible. Doesn’t want to think about how long it’s going to be until he gets to have this again.

“I have to go now,” Castiel breathes into his hair. “I’m sorry.”

He imparts one last kiss to the meeting place of Dean’s temple and hairline, whisper-soft; then the room is filled with the rushing of invisible wings. When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel is gone, along with the clothes that had previously been strewn all over the floor, and Dean is sat alone in Bobby’s spare bedroom wearing nothing more than his underwear.

It’s a long time before he moves again.

+

“So Cas came by last night, huh?” Sam asks later, just as they’re about to head out again. He’s clearly gotten over his embarrassment, if the smug, knowing smirk that’s plastered all over his face is any indication. It’s not quite as irritating as it could be -- mostly, Dean suspects, because the novelty of Sam having his soul back still hasn’t worn off yet -- but he’s still really not in the mood.

“Yeah, we’re not talking about this,” he warns, well aware of how much he sounds like a sulky child. The recalcitrance doesn’t stem from any reluctance to discuss his feelings, though; not really. He just doesn’t want to jinx things by attempting to define them. Sam’s always had this need to file everything away into neat little boxes, color-coded and labeled in permanent marker for future reference, but that’s never been Dean’s M.O. He’s perfectly happy to just let things _exist,_ without going all Freudian and over-analyzing them. Besides, he might have woken up to how he really feels about Cas, but other than that, nothing has really changed much. Whatever promises Castiel might feel compelled to make in the warmth and relative security of Dean’s bed, Dean seriously doubts that either one of them will get a happy ending.

And Castiel won’t ever be his reason to live -- that dubious privilege will always belong to Sam -- but he thinks that Castiel might just be his reason to keep on keeping on, something to reach towards in the highly unlikely event that God or fate or whoever decides to grant him just one fucking wish at the end of all this. It wouldn’t be that idyllic fantasy life that would never have worked out with Lisa, but something more attainable. Something real.

Dean thinks it possibly says something about the ridiculousness of his life that a relationship with an eons-old soldier of God seems like a more sensible thing to wish for than the standard cookie-cutter, all-American, two-point-five-kids-and-a-picket-fence lifestyle with a normal woman, but whatever.

He thinks of Castiel now, off who-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and hopes that he’s been able to take something similar from their night together. Hopes that Dean has given Castiel something to fight for on all the days he feels like throwing in the towel, something to come back home to when the war is finally over. However long that may take.

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighs, and from the way he’s looking over at Dean now, all big, sorrowful eyes, it’s painfully clear that he isn’t going to drop this. “If I’d known about Cas, I never would have made you go to Lisa.”

“Sam, no offence? But you didn’t _make_ me do anything. _I_ didn’t know about Cas back then, and staying with Lisa was probably good for me. Besides, he’s been too busy sorting out his own shit in Heaven.”

Sam purses his lips, casting him a dubious look. “I don’t know, Dean. I think he would’ve stayed, if you’d asked.”

Dean doesn’t quite know what to say to that; mostly because he thinks that Sam might have a point, and the thought of just how far Castiel will go for him scares him more than he’s willing to admit. All things considered, it’s probably for the best that things turned out the way they did. Heaven needs Castiel more than Dean does right now, at any rate.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes in anticipation of the gushy comment that is surely to follow. “I’m happy for you.”

“Jesus, Sam, would you let it go? I know you’re all excited to wear your bridesmaid dress, but we haven’t exchanged any vows yet. We just sex, that’s all. Really, really _awesome_ sex --”

“Okay!” Sam interrupts hurriedly, holding out a hand with a kind of pained expression on his face that makes him look vaguely constipated. “It’s bad enough that I had to listen to it all night; I _really_ don’t want to be imagining it. I mean it. There isn’t enough therapy in the world to scrub my mind free from the sounds of my brother --”

“Getting his mojo back?

“ _\-- defiling an angel._ ”

Dean flashes him the widest, filthiest grin he can muster, feeling inexplicably lighter than he did even five minutes ago. “You’re just jealous, bitch.”

And even though it’s been weeks since Sam got his soul back now, the faintly amused “ _Jerk,_ ” he gets in reply still makes him want to fucking _sing._ He manages to resist that urge, but he can’t stop himself from reaching out and ruffling his brother’s ludicrous excuse for a hairstyle before pulling the car keys out of his pocket.

“Get your ass in the car, Princess. Let’s hit the road.”

 _[end.]_


End file.
